#222 Wanted

by Meg Masters

She signed the letter and walked down the hall to stand in his open doorway. He was talking into his headset and clicking through his computer—attention split between two tasks, neither receiving full focus. His work suffered for it: typos, missed meetings, improbable commitments. How many times had she saved him over the years? Who would do that for him now?

He motioned her in. A dismissive gesture. The professional photo of his family stood like a guardrail at the front of his desk. Pageantry for visitors. The family attired all in white, his arm slung over the wife’s shoulder, children gathered round.

His blue, blue eyes at the center of the frame.

During her interview she had looked into those eyes and told herself, "Be careful."

When he ended it, his eyes had actually moistened. “It’s too distracting—having you right here in the office.”

She accepted it like an assignment.

He started wearing a wedding band. “Recommitting to my family,” he’d said, when she mentioned it. But he still traveled on business.

Then yesterday, he’d told her about the reorg—that he’d no longer be her boss.

She dangled the letter over his desk and shook it. She would not lay it down in front of him until she had his full attention. One. Last. Time.